


A Study in Lingerie

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sherlock, Defensively Heterosexual John Watson, F/M, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after her supposed death in Pakistan, Irene Adler shows up at 221B Baker Street with a suitcase full of lacy women's underwear far too large for her. She wants to put it on Sherlock Holmes.  She wants John Watson to watch.  And she is very difficult to refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Lingerie

**Author's Note:**

> Based on some very lovely, very NSFW drawings by Tai and Falka, [here](http://taikova.tumblr.com/post/68109631671/based-on-a-classic-post) and [here](http://katzensprotte.tumblr.com/post/68739753512/hey-ho-look-i-drew-a-thing-based-on-this-gifset), which in turn are based on [this gifset](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/15276167409/this-is-how-that-scene-should-have-gone). Thanks to the amazing [h3rring](http://h3rring.tumblr.com), as always, for betaing!

* * *

            The case begins (and ends) with a literal case, an old, worn blue suitcase with brown leather detailing brought to 221B Baker Street on a rainy night by a blonde Belgian bombshell.  The woman, who introduces herself as Gabrielle Valladon, wears large sunglasses and a floppy straw hat that must be in fashion _somewhere_.  She’s a slight, graceful thing who hands the case over to John Watson, bidding him to “be careful, sir, _please_ , the contents are very fragile,” in her delightfully accented English.  John follows her up the stairs, half in love, ignoring the glares directed at him from his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.

            They move to the sitting room.  As soon as Gabrielle is settled on the sofa—and no, she does not need a blanket, thank you, Doctor Watson—John puts the kettle on for some tea, since Mrs. Hudson is asleep and unable to dote on their poor drenched guest as she usually would.  Sherlock folds himself into his chair, scowling.

            “Her case won’t be worth our time,” he tells John.

            “Even if it isn’t, we’re not sending her back out in the rain without hearing her story first,” John retorts.

            “We had plans.”

            “No, we _didn’t_.  We don’t have a case on, and it’s not as if we were going anywhere with it raining like that.”  John sighs.  “At least give her a chance to warm up.  Where’s your sense of human decency?”

            Sherlock crosses his arms and says, “Get on with it.”

            “It is my husband,” Gabrielle begins earnestly.

            Admittedly, John is somewhat disappointed to hear that she’s married, but that’s not going to get in the way of _his_ sense of human decency, thank you very much.  Besides, he should have known by the big, sparkly ring Gabrielle has on one of her dainty little hands.  Bad idea to get involved with clients, anyway.  He continues to listen attentively.  Sherlock is not moved by her pretty face or her tone.  “What about him?”

            “He came to work here in London a few months ago,” Gabrielle says, dabbing beneath her sunglasses with a handkerchief.  “At first we kept in touch very often through emails and phone calls and text messaging, but then he stopped responding.  He was doing important work here, and I believe… something has happened to him.”

            “He found a new woman,” says Sherlock, bored, waving his hand dismissively.

            “It is not that!” Gabrielle protests.  “My Emile would _never_.”  She draws herself up and says, “Mr. Holmes, I know your reputation.  Before coming here to see you I gathered all of the clues that I could, including our email and text conversations.  They are all in the suitcase.  I thought that if you looked at them, maybe you could—”  She trails off, sobbing quietly into her hands.

            John gets up to comfort her, glaring at Sherlock, while Gabrielle moans, “Emile, Emile, he is lost to me forever.” 

            “At least open her case,” John hisses as he pats her gently on the shoulder.  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

            Reluctantly, Sherlock leans forward and hoists Gabrielle’s blue suitcase into his lap.  John knows from lifting it up the stairs that it isn’t all that heavy.  Facing it away from John and Gabrielle, he pops it open only to stare at its contents for a second or two and then close it again, loudly.  Gabrielle very nearly jumps.

            “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish,” Sherlock says, “but you’ve had your fun.  Be on your way.”

            “What?” chokes Gabrielle.

            “Take _this_ and leave.”  He sets the closed case down on the floor with a thump, as far away as he can without leaving his chair, as if whatever’s inside repulses him.

            “Sherlock, what’s going on?” asks John.  “You can’t just kick her out.”

            Sherlock looks over Gabrielle up at him.  “If you won’t take my word for it,” he says, “kindly ask Miss _Valladon_ to remove her wig.”

            Gabrielle looks up at John.  “Doctor Watson?” she hiccups.  She all teary, which distorts her words slightly, but something is wrong.  Something’s wrong with her voice.

            John furrows his brow.  “Your accent is slipping,” he says, and then he grabs hold of her hat and pulls it off—not with excessive force, mind—and when he does, the wig slips away, too, down to the floor.  The hair underneath is dark and glossy.

            Gabrielle Valladon removes her sunglasses and slips them into one of her many coat pockets.  “Thank you, Doctor Watson,” says Irene Adler.  “That was getting rather itchy.”

* * *

            Irene unbuttons Gabrielle’s trench coat and stretches out on the sofa.  It’s been a very long time since she’s been in 221B, and now her circumstances are different.  She’s not running for her life, or even pretending to.  John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, instead of mistaking her for a damsel in distress, know exactly who she is and what she does, but not what she’s after.  Time to play.  “Took you a while,” she says to Sherlock.

            “I had my suspicions, Miss Adler,” he replies coolly, but he’s eyeing her warily, a fox prepared to defend its den.  Oh, that’s good.  She’s grown to miss the way he’d watch her with a fight in his eyes.  And doesn’t he look well?  Domesticity suits him.

            “Not that I was Irene Adler, though,” she teases.

            “Went overboard with the acting.”

            “You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘They beat me up and took my wallet.’”

            “How are you—”  John Watson has dropped the hat, and he takes a few steps away from her, toward Sherlock, planting his feet, ready to put himself between Sherlock and danger.   It’s so telling, Doctor Watson.  “You’re supposed to be dea—err, in America.”

            “I’m neither dead nor in America.”

            “We do have eyes,” Sherlock interjects.

            “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything about it on your blog, Doctor Watson.  We’re all well aware of your limited capacity for subtlety.”  She wrinkles her nose.  “ _Telling_ the readers of your blog that I’d enrolled in a witness protection scheme in America would have been terribly inconvenient for me if that was what I’d actually done.”

            Sherlock chuckles.  John rounds on him.  “Oh, so you’re on her side now?” he asks.  “I thought you were kicking her out of our flat.”

            “If you’d stop interrupting me.  Miss Adler—”

            Irene widens her eyes in an attempt to look as innocent as humanly possible.  That trick won’t work on them, but it never hurts to try.  “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

            “I know why.”

            “You picked up on it from the contents of my case, no doubt, but I’m not sure you looked closely enough.”  She crosses her legs, leans forward, beams at him, inviting him to try again.  “Did you notice that most of the garments in there weren’t my size?”

            Sherlock clears his throat, but does not reply.  John says, “I’m sorry, what’s in the case?”

            “Lingerie, mostly,” Irene says casually.  “Makeup.” 

            “Some—other paraphernalia,” Sherlock adds, but he doesn’t specify what.  Probably too embarrassed or, maybe, deliciously enough, he doesn’t really know what they are, what exactly they’re used for.  Cute.  He can likely _deduce_ , though.

            “Okay…”  This doesn’t clear anything up for poor John Watson.  “And you brought that to our flat why, exactly?  We didn’t call for a dominatrix.”

            “You didn’t have to.  From the looks of it, you boys were planning on spending a quiet evening together.  I wanted in on the fun.”

            “There’s… there’s no fun to be in on,” says John, still bemused.  “We were just going to sit here and watch telly.  Sherlock was going to scour the Internet for cases.”

            “Doctor Watson, you were going to get comfortable on the sofa with a non-alcoholic beer,” says Irene Adler.  “Mr. Holmes was going to settle down next to you with his laptop and, while you watched TV, he was going to inch progressively closer to you until he could put his head on your shoulder.  You were going to think about petting his hair.  He was going to think about kissing you.  At some point, one of you would get up to go to bed, alone.”  She cocks her head to the side.  “How did I do?”

            “Er,” says John.  He looks to Sherlock who, notably, doesn’t say anything at all.

            Irene has them now.  She grins, and continues, “So _I_ thought, ‘Why leave those poor, misguided men to wallow in their unrequited love?’”

            “How very altruistic of you,” Sherlock says flatly.  “The door is downstairs.”

            “That doesn’t explain the suitcase,” John says over him.  “Full of women’s clothing?  That doesn’t fit you?”

            “Yes, that was the twist.”  Irene pushes hair out of her face, strands that escaped from her braid.  Her hair is flattened from being under the wig.  She’ll have to borrow their mirror.  “You’re most comfortable with women, Doctor Watson, as am I.  Sherlock doesn’t look terribly female, but with a little help…”  She looks him over.  “That mouth, that waist, those eyes—no, I doubt we’ll have much difficulty making him attractive to us.”

            “Um, I don’t—I mean—”  John shakes his head as if he doing so will somehow help his brain arrange her words into something that makes sense.  “You’re proposing that we dress him up in women’s clothing to deal with—what?”  Now it’s he who clears his throat.  “You know, last I checked, you freely admitted you were attracted to Sherlock.”

            “I’ll admit to it, embarrassing though it is.  Will you?”

            John clamps his mouth shut, looks away.

            Irene turns to Sherlock.  “I’ve come to settle a debt.”  Sherlock opens his mouth, and she raises a hand to stop him.  “No, I’m not certain I’m in your debt at all, but I don’t want to leave any loose ends hanging.  Let me dress you up and we’ll see what happens.”  She pauses before adding, “Trust me.”

            “I don’t repeat my mistakes,” Sherlock replies. 

            “Think of it as an experiment, then.”

            Sherlock lapses into silence.  John turns to him and says, “You’re not seriously considering this.  The idea that—”

            “She will try and try again until we appease her.”  If we appease her, she’ll leave.  Good boy.  His eyes meet John Watson’s, and John looks away first.  “Should you overstep your bounds,” Sherlock tells Irene, “I will not prevent John from punishing you.”

            “I didn’t think you would,” Irene says, but cheerfully.  She stands, forgetting her wig and hat on the floor and going for the case instead.  With her free hand, she takes his arm, urging him up from the chair.  “Come with me.  We have a _lot_ of work to do.”

* * *

            “I’ve already shaved today,” Sherlock protests feebly.

            “You shaved this _morning_ ,” Irene corrects.  “I want your face as hairless as it can get.  Smooth as silk.”  She runs her nails lightly down his cheek.  They’re clipped, he notices.  Still long enough to scratch, but shorter than usual.  Why has she clipped them?  “Sit still, dear.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

            “Yet,” is all Sherlock says, but he obeys, making himself as comfortable as he can on the toilet seat.  He’s wearing his blue dressing gown.  She’s wearing very little: just underwear.  Didn’t want to get anything on her clothes, she said.  Her hair had been coiled up in a braid under her wig, and now that braid drapes over her shoulder casually, as if she’s forgotten about it.  He refuses to be distracted by it, or by her breasts, even though they’re shapely and firm and right in front of his eyes when she plants a knee between his legs and begins smearing shaving cream all over his face.  Just skin.  Skin he’s seen before, even.  Unremarkable.

            But there’s no denying that the curves of her body are geometrically appealing, particularly the fullness in her hips.  When Sherlock and Irene last met, she’d been starving for weeks.  Hadn’t had so many convex lines to her.  Dry, cracked lips.  But, months later, she’s healthy again; she’s been eating well, and her skin has a glow to it that indicates intentional sun exposure.  “You’ve been on holiday,” he remarks.

            “The Riviera,” she says, leaning back to study her handiwork.  “Gabrielle likes France.”  Of course she would.  Irene Adler picks up his razor from the sink.  “Now, no more talking.”

            He closes his mouth as she begins to slide the razor over his skin, which she does with great focus and precision, pausing occasionally to rinse off shaving cream in the sink.  He already weighed the likelihood of her slitting his throat and decided that she’d have no reason to.  She knows John would kill her.  Sherlock closes his eyes, imagining what the look on John’s face would be when he pulled the trigger.

            He’s never seen two specimens more physically different than John and Irene.  John’s short, yes, and owns it, but he’s deceptively powerful.  Under that comfortably domestic layer of body fat he still has muscle from his doctor-soldiering days.  His face is round and warm.  _Warm_ is, in fact, the adjective that Sherlock would apply to John all over, in their quieter moments, when there are no life-threatening situations to dodge.  Warm like John’s breath against his cheek when they fell asleep in the same bed together under the influence of the fear-inducing compound from Baskerville and proceeded never to talk of it again.  John could be unassuming, he could pass for average, but it’s that exquisite warmth, that loyalty, which differentiates him from any truly average man.  (Sherlock’s often wondered if he is in love.)  (And then he’s set that question aside.)

            Irene Adler is not warm.  She is ice even under the hot desert sun just after rescuing her, snapping at him not to touch her when her ankle is _clearly_ broken and he needs to splint it.  John is that comfortable layer of fat all over, while Irene, even rejuvenated, is bony, reflective of the female fashions of the day—except in the places that curve: breasts, hips, thighs.  Her features (cheekbones, jaw) are sharp where John’s are round; she is petite, but carries herself as though she has six inches on everyone else.  She scrapes his own razor over his Adam’s apple with a surgeon’s precision, impersonal and intimate all at once.  It would take a more skilled partner than Sherlock to warm her.  Yet she’s here, with this scheme…

            Clearly, if she’s trying to repay him for saving her life, the end goal is to set him up with John, make him attractive to John. But her direct involvement would suggest that she wants him to be attractive to her as well, to perform for her, to—service her, an idea which should be less appealing than it is.  There is appeal there, though.  Service her, service John.  Sexually?  Has to be.  He opens his eyes—“Almost finished,” she says—and finds her curves right in front of him again, the softest parts of her.  When she turns to rinse his razor for the final time under the tap, he gingerly sets one of his hands on her hip.

            She sets the razor down (it clatters into the bowl of the sink) and turns back, smacking his hand lightly.  “ _No_ ,” she says, eyes hardening, and he pulls back as if he’d been burned.  “Not just yet.”  She smiles, then, and runs a thumb over his lips.  “We need to do your makeup first, _I_ need to fix my hair…”

            “Your aim is to be intimate,” he argues.  “What’s the point in delaying it?”

            “There’s a point,” says Irene Adler.  “You’ll see.”  As this is her plan, she likely knows better than he does although he can’t follow her logic.  She leans toward him, so close that her nose almost touches his, and he feels hot all over, at her closeness, at the thought of John being this close.  “You just don’t want to be seen by John Watson, dear.  You’re self-conscious.”

            Sherlock has nothing to say to that.  Protests would fall on deaf ears.

            “And I understand.”  She climbs off of him, then, to rummage through her case.  He watches her shoulder blades shift under her skin with some curiosity.  “But you’re not getting out of it by seducing me.  He’ll never admit his attraction to you without my help.”

            All Sherlock can do is lick his lips, which have suddenly gone very dry.  That’s a very John thing to do, he thinks.  “You’re so convinced that you know what I want better than I do, _Miss Adler_.  That I want John to admit how—how he feels.  Stop assuming things about me.”

            “I’m a reasonably unbiased third party, and you’re not as complicated as you think, Mr. Holmes.”  She straightens up, holding a makeup kit, and advances on him again, coming to straddle his lap.  He keeps his hands clutching the toilet seat, and doesn’t move to touch her again.  “You’re afraid,” she murmurs, stroking his cheek.  “You don’t have to be.  He already loves you.”

* * *

            It takes forever for Sherlock and Irene to emerge.  John circles the sitting room once, twice, stops counting.  He wonders how this even happened.  He wonders why Sherlock agreed to it.  He wonders, quite vividly, what Sherlock is going to look like when he comes back, and then he stops wondering about it.

            If he were secretly attracted to Sherlock Holmes, as Irene insists, as pretty much _everyone_ insists, he’d know by now, wouldn’t he?  Sherlock would enter John’s thoughts during masturbation, for example, or maybe when John was with a girl, or maybe just randomly—sometimes when they’re just sitting in the same room together, even—and he’d feel inexplicable urges to touch Sherlock and be around him, and… Most of these things already happen, don’t they?  Except he doesn’t always want to be around Sherlock.  Sometimes Sherlock is insufferable.  John finds consolation in that.

            But if Irene Adler is _right_ , he’ll never live it down.  If the _press_ catches wind of it, if anyone does, that’ll follow him forever, won’t it?  “John Watson is gay.”  Well, John Watson _isn’t_ gay.  John Watson has no bloody idea what he is.  No, that’s wrong.  John Watson is incredibly _straight_ , and there wouldn’t be any doubt about it if his flatmate weren’t so infuriatingly gorgeous and brilliant.  Plenty of girls out there who can testify to John’s heterosexuality.

            A door opens, just out of sight.  Hushed whispering.  Footsteps on the floor.  John stops moving and clasps his hands behind his back, at attention.  Ready.

            Irene appears first, wearing high heels, lacy black panties, and an incredibly transparent pink _something_.  It’s enough to make John forget how much he distrusts her for a minute.  Almost.  She’s always been strikingly gorgeous, and that doesn’t take away from the fact that she lied to them and tried to blackmail the British government and her breasts really are perfect, aren’t they?  No, stop that.  She brandishes a small riding crop in her hand, which she’s using to gesture for Sherlock to follow her.

            And Sherlock— _Sherlock_ , Jesus Christ.  Irene didn’t put him in heels, because he’s tall enough without them, and his legs don’t need much help to become any _shapelier_ than they are.  She did give him black stockings, though, held up by suspenders, and those draw attention to his thighs, his calves, slenderizing them.  A purple negligee, less transparent than Irene’s, shimmers over his torso, down to his upper thighs.  A bit of pink lace ornamentation at the bottom, which matches—oh, why did she do that?—the headband he’s wearing, a pink flower.  Probably a touch of mockery there.  She’s done an amazing job with his makeup, though.  Red lips, long lashes.  Definitely feminine, and definitely not something anyone is used to from Sherlock Holmes.  It’s a sight that goes straight to John Watson’s trousers.

            “How does he look?” Irene asks with just a touch of eagerness.

            “Hmm.”  Ignoring the tightness in his crotch area, John paces around Sherlock, examining him from every angle.  He’s seen Sherlock before, of course—seen him naked before, even.  Not on purpose.  Well, _John_ wasn’t doing anything on purpose, but he can’t say what Sherlock was up to, and given recent information, Sherlock thinking about kissing him and all that…  Anyway, he’s familiar with the shape of Sherlock’s body: long legs, broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist, wiry muscle tone all over.  And he’s given some _thought_ to Sherlock’s body, yeah, usually on accident; in the shower when he’s getting himself off, Sherlock has a way of creeping into his mind.  He’s never seen Sherlock packaged like this before, though, with the makeup and frills and stockings.

            Not a bad look.  Not a bad look at all.

            Sherlock stands stock-still while John examines him, waiting for the final word.  John comes to rest at his side.  “God,” he says at last, glancing up at Irene.  With a self-conscious little laugh: “You know what you’re doing, that’s for sure.”

            Irene beams, and says to Sherlock, “He does say the nicest things.  I can see why you keep him around.”  Sherlock’s answering smile is taut and nervous.

            “I’d say nix the headband, though,” John continues.  “And the suspenders.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yeah, his thighs’ll work just fine without them.  And, um, instead of the negligee, maybe something that shows off, you know—”  He gestures futilely at Sherlock’s general waist-backside area.  Irene raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.   Because it seems easier than verbalizing, John presses his gesturing hand against Sherlock’s arse.

            Sherlock doesn’t make a sound, but he raises his hand to his mouth and bites down hard on one of his fingers.

            “Sorry,” John exclaims immediately, withdrawing his hand, realizing that he probably should have asked first.  “I am so sorry.”  Trying to explain himself, he says, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.  Now that I think about it, you’re always parading it around our flat.  And it’s… nice.”

            “I don’t _parade_ anything,” Sherlock huffs, but he’s trying to hide how pleased he is that John has noticed him and failing rather spectacularly at it.  John very nearly sighs from relief.

            Belatedly, Sherlock adds, “And it’s fine, you may—touch.  Part of the experiment.”  And then, after another pause, “Thank you.”

            “He might need a bit of work, actually,” Irene says, mostly to herself, “if the best thing he can say about your bottom is that it’s ‘nice.’”

            “You might need some work yourself, if you’re stuck calling it a ‘bottom.’”  John looks Sherlock straight in the eyes for the first time since he emerged in that costume, and says, “You have a _fantastic_ arse, by the way.”

            Sherlock tries to keep a straight face, but pink cheeks give him away.  Irene simpers at John.  “Don’t be an _arse_ hole, Doctor Watson.”  Stepping forward to take Sherlock by the arm, she says, “Time for a change of clothes.”

* * *

            The next outfit Irene chooses for Sherlock is even more revealing: panties, stockings that stay up without help, a _brassiere_.  Sherlock protests at the bra, as it’s illogical for him to wear one, he doesn’t have breasts, but Irene wears him down and he relents.  This new outfit is red and black, unquestionably sultrier.  To put a point on it, Irene even paints his nails deep red with quick-drying polish.

            “Are you quite finished?” he asks as she circles him like a vulture, studying him from every possible angle.

            “Almost done.  Just need a bit of adjustment…”  She bends down slightly at the waist to adjust the panties, tugging them down a little to ensure that he’s fully covered.  He hopes he gets to take them off soon, one way or another.  They make his testicles itch.  “Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” she murmurs.

            “There’s no surprise,” Sherlock mutters, slightly embarrassed.  The backs of her knuckles brushing against his inner thighs yield a surprisingly pleasant tickling sensation.  “John has already seen me naked.  We live together.”

            “He’s never seen you like this.”  She pulls at the stockings so they sit a little higher on his thighs, then straightens, reaching up to muss his curls.  “There,” she says.  “Now you’re perfect.”

            He stares down at her, the touch of her fingers still tingling in his scalp.  She’s looking up at him, all blue eyes and slim arms and straight back and round breasts and parted lips, slightly breathless from the exertion of perfecting him.  He wants to tell her she already considered him perfect.  He says instead, “You’ve wanted to kiss me.  Tell me when.”

            “Mr. Holmes,” she scoffs, “you’re talking _sentiment_.”  But she doesn’t pull away.  She’s still there, one hand still resting on the waistband of his underwear, looking up at him, straight into his eyes, as if saying, _I don’t take orders,_ you’re _the one who has to confront this_.

            He doesn’t back down.  “It’s an innocent request.”

            “Nothing’s innocent between the two of us.”  That hand inches up to rest on his waist, and her mouth curves at the corners.  “Except you, dear.  I didn’t realize it was possible to be so naïve.  You’re about to get shagged senseless by the man of your dreams while wearing women’s clothing and here we are, talking about _kissing_.”

            He waits.  Standing before her like this, wearing very little, should make him feel vulnerable.  It doesn’t.  She wants him to look this way, and he knows it.  If anything, that knowledge makes him more confident in asking.  So he waits, and she sighs.  “In front of your fireplace, months ago, I would have kissed you had we not been so rudely interrupted.  Good?”

            “When else?”

            “You wanted to kiss me earlier than that,” she says, ignoring the question.  “I reckon you would have kissed me awake when you found me sleeping in your bed, had that sort of thing even been on your radar.”

            “It occurred to me in Karachi, Miss Adler,” he says quietly, mostly to provoke her into admitting something.

            “Oh, not then,” says Irene Adler, tipping up her chin in defiance.  “I thought about it, but not then.  I was too tired, too hungry.  Too…”

            _In too much pain_.  “That’s why I did not.”  He draws up his shoulders, breathes in as though he’s straining for air.  “But you’re all right, now.”

            “I am,” she agrees.  “And I’ve never wanted to kiss you more than I have now, because look at you.”  The smile she gives him shows teeth.  “I’ve been all over you, making you up.  Anyone who looked at you would see me.  You’re beautiful.”

            He doesn’t tell her that she’s a masterpiece for concocting this scheme in the first place, for surviving, for making her way here undetected, for figuring out something that would get John to look at him like he did back there, but he’s thinking it.

            “Stop that,” she says, reading his face.  “This isn’t about us.  Rather, it is about us, but only in that I’m here to settle the score.  You saved my life, and in return I’m giving you something you’ve always wanted.”

            “It goes both ways,” he notes.  “You want to get me out of your system.”

            “That’s ridiculous.”

            “Is it?”  Before she can reply, he leans down.  She’s tall enough in her heels that it’s easy to fit their faces together without him stooping too low.  Her mouth is soft, slightly waxy from her lipstick, and after her initial surprise—but she must have known, she can read him as well as he can read her—she presses it back against his.  It’s nice.  Slightly awkward, not unpleasant.  Her body is warm against his. 

            They stay like that until he adventurously tries to part her lips with his tongue, which is when she nips his bottom lip and pushes him away.  “Oh, _no_ ,” she says, half laughing, half chagrined.  “You’ve no sense of nuance at all.  I expected better.”

            He looks away from her.  Obviously—this only occurs to him in retrospect, _damn_ it—all of this dressing up and kissing and threesomes is what she used to do in her former life, so she’d have much more experience than him.  Higher standards.  Just as he’s feeling embarrassed about even trying to impress her, Irene turns his face back to her with a gentle hand.  (If he were in the mood for cruelty, he’d point out that her pupils are dilated, which means that despite what she’s saying she is at least a little aroused by his clumsy seduction.)

            “But you’ve always been a fast learner, Mr. Holmes,” she says, endeared.  “Let’s see how quickly you improve.” 


End file.
